


This is just one version of the way it could go

by zelda_zee



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-22
Updated: 2010-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:10:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zelda_zee/pseuds/zelda_zee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are as many ways that this story could go as there are writers of this pairing. This is just one version.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is just one version of the way it could go

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [](http://bauble.livejournal.com/profile)[**bauble**](http://bauble.livejournal.com/) , for betaing. Written for [](http://dc-fireplace.livejournal.com/profile)[**dc_fireplace**](http://dc-fireplace.livejournal.com/).

Let’s get this out of the way right at the start: Dean says yes to Michael.

Sure, he hems and he haws and he procrastinates right up until the last second. He curses the Heavens and God and all the angels (oh, you better believe he curses the angels), he weeps bitter tears like Jesus in Gethsemane, he cries “Why me?” and many colorful and profane variations of “Remove this cup from me, oh Lord.”

At least he does until he realizes what he's doing, and then he shuts the fuck up.

Dean thinks about Sam and Lucifer and how he’d sworn he wouldn’t let it happen, how he’d believed he could stop the spinning of the world and keep the Winchesters from being totally, utterly fucked up the ass one more time.

(You have guessed correctly that Sam said yes to Lucifer and I don’t have to tell you how Dean feels about that. You can imagine – we can all imagine – how Dean feels about that.)

Dean thinks about Castiel, and how he let him down, how Cas gave up everything – more than Dean could even imagine. And now Dean is about to leave him alone to face a world that's going up in flames.

Because Dean is out of options. They’ve tried every trick in every book they could dig up and in the end it’s the same as it always is – there’s only one option and it’s a really shitty one. Dean thinks he should be used to that by now. It’s almost surprising to him that he’s not.

Of course, Dean’s in another crappy motel room on the night before the end of the world, because that’s his fate, isn’t it? To spend his last night on Earth in a motel room with furniture from the 1970s and kitschy wallpaper – let’s give it big polka dots this time; metallic gold and lime green and bright pink, a suitably apocalyptic color combination to herald the end of time. Yet this is as close as Dean gets to a home, so where else would he be on the last night of his life?

You have a suggestion, an alternate possibility you wish considered: he is driving through the night, going 120 mph on some straight Midwestern highway, windows rolled down, Metallica blasting from the speakers, the roar of the Chevy’s engine underscoring the ominous hum of Cliff Burton’s bass. There is a full moon in the sky, shining silvery light onto the farms and dairies as he drives by, making America’s heartland gleam and glisten, and reminding Dean of what he is trying to save. Of why it’s all worth the sacrifice.

And that _is_ what Dean does on the last night of his life--in some other story. I’m sure I’ve read it somewhere, and if not, I hope to someday.

But in this story he paces in a motel room, cursing and muttering and crying (it’s not unmanly when Dean cries and, after all, he does have an awful lot to cry about). He’s tired, which is why he’s not out on the highway, wind in his hair, singing _Hells Bells_ or (with an ironic smile on his face) _Free Bird_ at the top of his lungs. He’s been fighting and running and fighting some more and what Sam did cut him to the bone, deeper than Alistair ever managed to slice. He just doesn’t have it in him this time.

The last time Dean lived through the last night of his life Sam was at his side, and Dean hadn’t yet died or been to Hell or been jerked around by angels and demons like he has been ever since he got back. You try living through a year or two of that. It’ll knock the stuffin’ right out of you, damn straight.

And he’s about to say yes to Michael. That’ll knock the stuffin’ out of you too.

Please don’t think he’ll change his mind. You know Dean Winchester as well as any of us. When his mind is made up, it’s made up, and despite his railing and ranting, this is it. So Dean will say yes to Michael and Michael will take his vessel and grip his sword tight in his steely grasp and fall upon Lucifer with all the power and glory of the Almighty.

And we shall see what happens.

But as for Dean, he’ll be gone.

 _No!_ you cry, but it’s true. Dean will not see the apocalypse. Doesn’t seem fair, does it? After all he suffered, all he gave to try to keep it from happening?

But what about Castiel? This _is_ supposed to be a Dean/Castiel fic, isn’t it? Why is Castiel not here to comfort Dean, to succor him in his hour of need?

Even now, Dean is calling him. Listening to the phone ring, to Castiel’s voice on the other end: “Hello. You have reached Castiel. Please leave a message and I will return your call as soon as possible.”

(Dean remembers when he helped Castiel record this message, how they had to do it so many times before Castiel got it right. Dean recalls insisting that Castiel should not identify himself as ‘Castiel, Angel of the Lord’, and Castiel’s amused smile as he acquiesced after a protracted discussion. For the first time, Dean realizes that Castiel had only called himself that in order to provoke a reaction from him.)

“Cas,” Dean says, and his voice is ragged and raw. He knows Castiel will be able to tell that he’s been crying, and he doesn’t care. “Cas, I need you. Where are you, man? I’ve been calling and calling and… Cas, this is it. If you’re not here by – by sunrise I guess, then that’s it. Cuz I’m outta here.” He laughs and a sob catches in his throat. “Gonna blow this popsicle stand.” He’s silent for a minute and then another, just breathing, listening to the sound of Castiel not being there. Finally, he says, soft and a little slurred, “Wish I could see you before I go.”

He winces and hangs up, tosses the phone on the bed. He’s hungry, but doesn’t want to eat. There doesn’t seem much point to eating when in a few hours his body’s going to be a meatsuit for Heaven’s finest. (Dean’s last meal was a microwaved burrito at a 7-Eleven. In a perfect world it would have been a delicious cheeseburger with french fries at a homey diner with red naugahyde booths and waitresses who call him “hon,” but as you know by now this fic is not about a perfect world.)

 _Let Michael fight the good fight on a 7-Eleven burrito_ , Dean thinks. _Serve the fucker right if he gets heartburn_.

He wants a shower, but again sees no point; he’s tired but does not want to sleep. He is ready for it to be over. The truth is, he’s been ready for a long time. For years. He told Sam, way back in River Grove that he was tired, and he’s only more tired now. He kept on going for the people he loved and now, even though most of them are dead and gone, Dean guesses he may as well die for them too.

He waits until sunrise, because he told Cas he would, because he’s hoping that Cas will call him back or just show up. Dean feels like there are things he needs to say, like there’s so much left unfinished. Dean’s not good at showing his heart, but he thinks he could tonight, on the night before he dies. He wants to show it to Castiel, even though the sight of it would be familiar to him. He made it, after all; his heart and everything else Dean is now.

Dean never understood the regard Castiel holds him in; how Cas can know him so well and still believe in him. It never made the slightest bit of sense to Dean and now he guesses it never will. It’s one of the mysteries of faith, like the virgin birth and the Eucharist.

When the sun slices through the darkness, a fiery light flickering against the curtains, he calls Castiel again.

“Cas,” he says, and if his voice was ragged before, you can imagine what it sounds like now. “I gotta head out, Cas, but I wanted – there are things I wanted to say to you… I guess maybe you already know a lot of them. Just – you said once that you did it all for me. Remember that? I remember it like it was yesterday.” He takes a deep breath, exhales it shakily. “Well, I’m doing this for you. Because you believed in me and I still don’t get why, but you did and that’s worth something. So I’m doing this for you, even though I know you don’t want me to anymore. I’ve gotta do it, cuz it’s all I can do to make things right and I hope to that God of yours that it works, Cas, I really do, because otherwise – Jesus –” He nearly loses it for a moment. “There’s one thing – if you could be sure the Impala gets to Bobby, that’d be great.”

He nods, silent for a moment. “Okay. I guess that’s it. I’d say ‘hope to see you again’ but I’m not sure where I’m gonna end up and chances are, wherever it is, it’s someplace you won’t want to be. So.” Dean sighs and steadys his voice. “You take care of yourself. Bye.”

That’s it, he thinks.

He tosses the phone on the bed, leaves the door to his room open behind him, walks through the parking lot and into the vacant lot behind the motel, keeps walking until he’s in the middle of a field, surrounded by dirt and weeds, nothing nearby that will be harmed by the arrival of an archangel.

“Okay,” he says, and takes a last look at the world.

There’s nothing much to see – the motel that has seen better days, some dingy houses, a liquor store, a sad pizzeria across the street, this litter-strewn field of wild oat and dandelion. In this moment, his last, it’s all unutterably beautiful. It’s precious, he realizes, every bit of this ugly, careworn world and at that, he’s not angry anymore, or broken-hearted or exhausted.

He’s full of love, so much love, love filling him up and overflowing until there’s no room in him for anything else, love like he’s never known, never knew was possible. He feels love in his heart for Sam, so strong, so fierce that it takes his breath away; and for his parents and his grandparents and Bobby and Ellen and Jo and Chuck and all the hunters he’s known (even the ones who tried to kill him) and all the girls he’s screwed and all the people he’s scammed at poker and pool and all the whiskey-voiced bartenders and the waitresses who flirted with him, and everyone who tried to help him and died for their trouble and all the spirits he put to rest and _Cas_. Oh God, there’s so much love for _Cas_.

“Okay, Michael.” He tilts his head up and stares into the gray, empty sky. “Come and get me. I’m all yours,” and the sky turns white and disappears.

~*~

A pause here, a moment to collect yourself after that affecting scene, perhaps to dab at the corner of your eyes with a handy tissue from the box placed near your computer for just such moments, for who can face the end of Dean Winchester, even when written so very prosaically, without a sniffle and a tear? It would take a very hard-hearted person to be unmoved! A deep breath, perhaps a peek at email or a quick refresh of the friends page and you are once again ready to forge ahead, hopefully to discover that at some point Castiel will make an appearance in this fic (which is billed, after all, as Dean/ _Castiel_ fic, as you have so rightly pointed out).

And, indeed:

Castiel spent the past three days learning what it is to want something enough to beg and to scream and to fall into complete despair.

This is hard to picture, I know. You will have to try hard to imagine it. Castiel has always been so stoic, so unmovable. Yes, there are the rare glimpses of humor, the small moments of restrained affection, but if he has experienced strong emotion he has hidden it well.

Castiel is a classic case of still waters running deep, as everyone reading this fic would doubtless agree.

He never knew what it is to want something before now – not _really_ , though it may be argued that he has wanted Dean for a long time. Whether he has or not isn’t important at this juncture. If he has, he was not aware of it. Such is the way of angels, clueless in matters of the heart.

And where is he? It will be a familiar sight to you, for it is the infamous green room where Dean was forced to await the rising of Lucifer. Now it is where Castiel is being forced to “cool his heels”, as Zachariah phrased it, until such time as Michael takes his vessel. Castiel is hidden away from men and angels alike, in this impenetrable place where he can’t try to stop Dean from doing what they all know he’s about to do.

But how was he caught, you ask? Now, is that really important? He needs to be locked away so that Dean can accept Michael. If he is not, you know as well as I that Castiel could convince Dean that there may be another way. Perhaps he would tell Dean he loves him – not in the all-encompassing yet removed way of angelic love, but in the very specific ways of human love. Perhaps he would demonstrate his love upon Dean’s body. (Yes! you say, _that_ is the fic I want to read, one with demonstrations of love upon bodies, not this strange, dreary tale where Dean dies and Castiel is locked away alone.) There were only ever two souls on Earth that Dean cared enough about that they might make him risk the world for love of them – one was Sam, but Sam is gone. The other is Castiel, and therefore he needed to be locked away, or else you would be reading a completely different fic.

So, for the sake of believability, let’s say that it was only a matter of time until some clever angel figured out cell phones and computers. Let’s say that this angel was able to triangulate Castiel’s location by accessing online data of his cell service provider. Let’s say this angel and a few others took Castiel by surprise and whisked him away to the green room, tossing his cell phone into the weeds, where for the next three days the strains of _Born to Be Wild_ issued from it every time Dean dialed the number.

Thus, curiosity satisfied, we may proceed.

The site of Castiel’s imprisonment was chosen, no doubt, in retaliation for Castiel’s actions in freeing Dean from that selfsame room. Now, though, there is no one to free Castiel, there is no one even to hear his pleas, as the angels who brought him there – angels he had once called his brothers and sisters – have not deigned to return. He is completely alone, more alone than he has ever been – without God, Heaven or Dean. He suspects it is a state to which he will be forced to accustom himself.

Somewhere, Castiel knows Dean is trying to contact him. He would not leave this life without saying goodbye, of that Castiel has no doubt. He knows Dean better than that (better than anyone ever has, in fact). For all that Dean is loath to name his feelings, Castiel is well aware of their nature. Their bond – the one first forged in Hell – has only strengthened since he brought Dean back. Now it is virtually unbreakable, at least while Dean lives.

That the bond might break when Dean accepts Michael is unthinkable to Castiel. He finds that the depth of his connection to Dean is greater even than he knew. Alone in that room, he experiences a pain deeper than that visited upon him when he was recalled to Heaven for chastisement or when the archangels descended upon him and nearly succeeded in ending his existence. He feels dread and fear and a horrible suspicion that he will never see Dean again, at least not in this life and he is no longer convinced that there is any other life to look forward to.

He knows the moment Dean calls on Michael. There’s a surge in his grace, a sudden strengthening of what has been weakening for so long. It sweeps him up in ecstasy and he falls to his knees, shuddering, light bleeding out of his wide eyes, his open mouth.

Then there’s a flicker, and another, light blinking and fading and Castiel yells, “NO,” falls flat on the floor, shaking and helpless as his grace rages inside him like a wild beast, before, with a finality that frightens him more than anything in his experience ever has, it simply winks out of existence.

He screams and screams. He has no idea for how long – long enough for his throat to burn and his voice to decline to a rasp.

(But this is a terrible fic! you cry. Death, imprisonment, and now a loss of grace? Your finger hovers over the ‘back’ button, hesitating only because you have already read this far and it seems a shame to give up after the time you have invested. And you know that there is a chance that the fic will get better; a last-minute reprieve is always possible in stories such as this.)

Castiel’s scream ceases suddenly when he feels something inside of him that he at first cannot identify. It’s a slight tickle that makes his skin tighten, and then a burning like the return of sensation to a deadened limb. He gasps as he realizes what it is – his grace, or a portion of it, a small, weakened shadow of what it was, but something still, some part of his essence that still lives.

He casts about, trying to pinpoint its location and it’s with a feeling of unreality that he realizes it’s not even inside him, for he is barren, devoid of grace and power, nothing left within him of the angel he has been since the beginning. What he feels is that connection he has with Dean, just the faint spark of it, but undeniably there. Somehow, he feels it in spite of his reduced state. He feels Dean’s soul, not dead, not gone. Somehow, somewhere, it lives on.

It is at that second that the doors to the green room fly open, and Zachariah strides triumphantly in. He comes to stand above Castiel, who is nearly insensate with the trauma of losing his grace. What little consciousness he has is focused on not revealing that he feels a small, fragile tendril of it remaining, he knows not how or where or why. Zachariah must not discover this, for Castiel knows that he would not rest until it was completely eradicated.

“Well, well,” Zachariah says, nudging Castiel with the toe of his shoe. “You’re looking lamentably _human_ today, Castiel.”

And he is, _oh God_ , he is _human_. Castiel clenches his fists and lies shaking on the floor, the agony and the humiliation of it shredding his soul into tiny pieces. He says nothing, not even when he sees drops of water fall upon the carpet and he realizes with icy horror that he’s _weeping_. The one thought in his mind is to hide the precious knowledge that somewhere Dean Winchester exists and that there is a thin filament of grace that still connects Castiel to him.

So he bites his lip when Zachariah gleefully describes how Dean was burned out of his body by the magnificence that is Michael, how relieved Zachariah is that that ungrateful little shit that was Dean is no more. Castiel shakes and sobs and prays that his severance from the angels means that Zachariah cannot read him well enough to know what he knows, that Michael claiming his vessel did not bring about the end of Dean as he believes, at least not in his entirety.

“Look at you,” Zachariah says in disgust. He pushes at Castiel with his foot until he rolls over onto his back. “Two minutes without your grace and you’re already a sniveling, snot-nosed weakling, just like the rest of them.” Castiel dares to open his eyes and look up at him and all he sees is a smug, middle-aged man where he used to see the light and glory of Zachariah’s angelic form.

Zachariah crouches down beside him, his face twisting into an ugly grimace. “You deserve _everything_ that’s about to happen to you,” he says and slaps his palm to Castiel’s forehead. Castiel gasps as pain and light and electricity go jolting through him.

“Enjoy your front row view of the apocalypse, you _traitor_ ,” is the last thing he hears before he blacks out.

~ * ~

What a relief, to be done with that! The preceding was not a pleasant scene in the least, not to write, and I imagine it will not be pleasant to read either (unless you are the sort of reader who likes to see your favorite character suffer, and if you are, you may have found that scene quite enjoyable).

At any rate, the first two parts of this fic have been – well, to speak plainly, they have been damned depressing. You are no doubt wondering what this writer is up to, posting such a grim fic for a challenge meant to _celebrate_ the pairing of Dean/Castiel. Why not post something more lighthearted involving pie and kissing and Dean’s beloved Impala? Or fic about birthdays or puppies or sharing an umbrella? And where, you may ask, is the porn? If there are neither puppies nor pie, surely there must be porn. (At the risk of losing you at this point, I must inform you that no, there is not.)

If you are still with me after that disappointing admission, we return now to discover what has become of Dean. A switch in POV; you understand how that works. In this fic we bounce back and forth between protagonists like a ping pong ball (a sure sign that the writer is too undisciplined to stick to one viewpoint).

Be that as it may, with Michael’s occupation of his body, Dean ceased to exist. There was the briefest instant of nothingness, and then… returning awareness, flickering like a wavering flame. There is consciousness of a sort, a vague, fog-wrapped impression of what it was to be alive, faded memories, faces half-seen, sounds that echo incoherently – a laugh, a shout, the discordant notes of a song – a feeling of speed, of things rushing past in the darkness, then light that is too bright, and colors – bright red, deep blue.

There is a distant sense of self – Dean knows _that_ he is, even if he does not know _who_ he is and cannot remember his name or even that he ever had a name.

He feels himself carried in something large, something that has no boundary or limit. There is warmth surrounding him that is not a physical sensation but a spiritual one. He understands in his limited way that he is safe, protected; that whatever shields him is strong enough to easily contain him. He is tucked carefully away, somewhere deep and hidden and Dean finds that he does not want to try to remember or to understand what has happened. He only wants to sleep, and so he sinks, for once dreamless and peaceful, into slumber.

(You may find this disturbing – to have Dean’s soul separated from his body in this way. You may wonder how he can save the world without a body. Without putting too fine a point on it, he can’t. He has done his part already, providing Heaven’s champion with its sword. Would you ask more of him than that? Nearly every week, too much is asked of Dean. For the purposes of this fic, he has done enough.

What’s that, you say? That was not your primary worry? _Ohhh_ , I see. You are worried that without a body Dean cannot make sweet, sweet love to Castiel. Again, you are correct: he cannot.

True love is thwarted at every turn. Perhaps this is a romance after all.)

We cannot know for certain how long Dean remains in this state, but it must be for at least a few days. Long enough for Michael and Lucifer to rally their armies for the final battle. Long enough for humanity to finally look around them and notice that something is not quite right; rivers of blood, plagues of locusts, the book of Revelation made manifest before their eyes. There are charges of hoaxes and tricks, then accusations of terrorism, and finally declarations of war. Things quickly spin out of control, just as the prophecies foretold.

But do we really care about prophecies or the fate of humanity or even the great battle between Michael and Lucifer? No, we care about Dean and Castiel, and particularly about whether they will actually interact at any point during the course of this fic. (You scroll up to check the header again and, yes, the pairing is listed as Dean/Castiel, so you assume that they will, unless the writer means Dean/Castiel in only a vague, metaphysical way and if that is the case, you will certainly write a strongly worded comment to inform her that such games are not acceptable.) Let humanity deal with the apocalypse as they may, let them learn to curse demons and angels alike, let them beseech an absent God and flee a very present Devil, let them wake up from the dream of ignorance and find, as the Winchesters have known for a long time now, that the truth can be a nightmare.

That is not our concern. Our concern is Dean, hidden away behind layers of powerful protection, and Castiel, booted out of the Host to land alone, in a world that is on the verge of annihilation.

When Dean slowly comes to consciousness it is to a strange, clicking sound, _snap snap snap_ , and Dean is awake.

 _Hallelujah, you’ve rejoined the world of the living! That's just an expression, you understand, so don't get your hopes up_. There is a disembodied voice; not a sound, but something all around Dean, maybe even within him. _Did you have a good sleep, Princess?_ Talking fast, clipped words, smartass.

 _Gabriel?_

 _My, what a bright boy you are!_

 _Gabriel?! What the hell –_

 _Ah, ah, ah_ , the voice – Gabriel – chides. _I’ll thank you to keep your blasphemy to yourself while I’m lugging you around_. The sound of a belch, loud and uncouth, obviously drawn out for dramatic effect. _It doesn’t agree with my delicate constitution._

Dean manages to latch onto three words, despite his complete disorientation. _'Lugging me around'? What do you mean – 'lugging me around'?_

 _You’re inside me, kid_. There’s a rumbling that Dean recognizes after a moment as Gabriel chuckling. _Yeah, you’ve fantasized about that, don’t even try to deny it. And before you start in with the jokes, let me point out that I saved your ass so you have to be nice to me now._

Dean’s in no fit state to joke, or to do anything else. He doesn’t understand what’s happening, not in the least.

 _Am I dead?_ he asks.

 _Hmm. Well, that’s a tricky question. Yes and no. Technically no, because your body is still around, being worn, quite stylishly I might add, by Michael. And the rest of you is here with me, all wrapped up safe and sound. But as to reuniting the two, well, that’s kind of a long shot, so I guess you might as well be._

 _Fuck._

 _You’re the one who said yes to Michael, so don’t blame me that things aren’t working out for you. One question, hotshot - what on earth were you thinking?!_

 _I –_ Dean's not sure what he was thinking. _It seemed like a good idea at the time?_

Gabriel snorts, a jarring vibration that would set Dean’s teeth on edge if he had any. _Typical. You and your brother had an unsurpassed talent for making bad decisions._

 _Bad decisions!_ Dean feels his temper flare. _Don’t you go second-guessing us. You don’t know what it was like, you self-righteous dick!_

 _Wow!_ Gabriel sounds irritatingly gleeful. _Now there’s the Dean Winchester we all knew and um, didn’t really love so much. That didn’t take long._

 _Don’t you talk about Sam_ , Dean warns.

 _Touchy, touchy. Sam always was your soft spot, and vicey versy._ Gabriel is silent for a while and Dean is too, trying to remain calm, not to panic or lose his temper again, neither of which will do him any good in his current predicament. _I’m sorry_ , Gabriel says. _About Sam. I always liked that boy._

 _Liked him?_ Dean says incredulously. _You got your kicks from torturing him. That’s your way of showing affection?_

 _Yeah. Kind of like pulling the pigtails of the girl you’ve got a crush on in school. Not very mature of me, I know_ , Gabriel quips, then his voice becomes serious again. _I didn’t think he’d really do it._

 _Is that why I’m here, because you couldn’t save Sam?_ Gabriel doesn’t reply, and after a minute Dean adds, _You wanted us to say yes. ‘Play our roles’, remember?_

 _Yeah, well. Be careful what you wish for._

 _I thought you just wanted it to be over._

 _I do! But not like this._ Gabriel sounds so dejected that Dean almost forgets who he’s dealing with and feels sorry for him.

 _It’s no fun watching your family tear each other to pieces, is it?_ There’s an uncomfortable silence.

When Gabriel speaks, he’s banished the melancholy and is back to his annoyingly peppy Trickster voice.

 _At least it looks like we’re in time for the big event. Wouldn’t want to miss that! Ah, there we go – you’d better hold onto something. I think we’re in for a bumpy ride_

There’s a strange, stomach-clenching feeling, the sensation of falling from a great height, while simultaneously being buffeted by a hurricane.

 _Are we flying?_ Dean asks. Dean, even in an incorporeal state, does not like flying.

 _Pipe down_ , Gabriel growls, his voice strained. _I’m trying to concentrate._

 _Cause I’d rather not fly_ , Dean says. _Flying’s not –_

Gabriel silences him with a thought, and Dean no longer experiences the whoosh and surge of flight. He can’t hear Gabriel either. There’s nothing – dark, empty, silent nothing.

~*~

We skip ahead here, through the gathering storm of Michael’s and Lucifer’s forces massing for war, smoothly circumventing the need for description of the armies of Heaven and Hell and pesky questions such as: would it look something like the scene before the gates of Mordor in _Return of the King_ or would the action occur on a metaphysical plane, perhaps not even visible to human eyes?

Suffice to say that there were two armies led by two fearsome champions, ready to fight into death and beyond. You may imagine them as you will, perhaps utilizing your favorite elements from movies you have seen and books you have read.

Is Castiel there, you wonder? Is he witness to this momentous turning point in the history of our world?

No, he is not. He has made his way to a make-shift hospital in Dean’s home state of Kansas, where he assists the doctors in caring for those who have been injured in the intermittent skirmishes that have erupted in the countdown to Armageddon. He looks after the wounded and tries to accustom himself to his new station in life and he thinks about Dean, clings to that slim line of grace that binds them together.

He does not know if he would like being human if Dean were with him – perhaps he would. Perhaps Dean could help him make sense of it. Without Dean, he fears it will kill him.

So, Castiel is far from the action, and Dean is tamped down inside of Gabriel, unaware and unaffected. For all intents and purposes he is nowhere at all.

You sigh and shake your head. This is not the way you had imagined it going, with neither of our heroes playing a part in the ultimate showdown between the universal forces of good and evil. You wonder if this writer truly has a grasp of what constitutes a compelling narrative. You suspect she does not, as it is apparent that she is determined to undermine what should be the cathartic moment of the story – Dean and Castiel’s epic love played out against the backdrop of a great battle.

Be that as it may, we return to the battlefield, to the two armies on the brink of mutual destruction. Hark! The sound of a thousand trumpets blowing and then a flash of bright light illuminates the scene, shooting like a star betwixt the two sides, and a voice cuts through the din, audible to the furthest foot soldier at the farthest edge of the Host.

“Now hang on just one little minute,” the voice says, with what can only be called a smart-alecky inflection. “Do you want to tell me what do you two muttonheads think you’re doing?!”

~*~

When next Dean awakens, it’s a wholly different experience than the last time, when his disembodied soul had been swaddled and smothered deep inside of an angel. This time the world around him is _loud_ and it stinks and there’s an immediate awareness of activity and chaos before he even opens his eyes.

And then he does open his eyes and he’s staring straight up at a blue sky obscured by clouds of drifting, dark gray smoke. He groans, because every bit of his body aches, his head most of all. He raises a hand to rub at it, when he realizes - _he has a hand_. He holds up the other one and examines them both – they’re _his_ hands, rough and calloused, his ring still on his finger. He looks down the length of his body - it’s his body all right, even if his clothes are bloody and torn.

“What the fuck?” he mumbles, because this is not what he expected, not at all.

His eyes focus on the world beyond his own body and he has to ask, “What the _fuck_?” a second time. He’s lying on a cot in the middle of what looks like it might once have been an open-air shopping mall before the buildings were destroyed by bombs and looters. All around him are other cots inhabited by bloodied and broken-looking men and women, some of whom are calling out for help. When he spots people in white coats moving amongst the wounded he realizes he’s in a field hospital, though he has no idea how he got here or why he’s once again ensconced in his own body.

“Dean.”

Castiel is at his side. He kneels beside Dean, moving more slowly and stiffly than Dean remembers.

“You’re awake.” Castiel’s eyes are wide, worriedly searching his face. “How are you feeling?”

“I – I dunno.” Dean stares at Castiel, can’t take his eyes off of him. He looks good, Dean thinks at first, then realizes that’s only because he had thought he’d never see Castiel again and now he’s actually here, close enough to touch. In reality Castiel doesn’t look good. He looks tired, dark circles beneath his eyes, skin too pale. He’s missing his trench coat and suit jacket, as well as his tie, and the white shirt he’s wearing is gray with dirt and covered in stains, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“Cas –” Dean’s got too many things he wants to say, can’t seem to get any of them out. His eye is caught by a scratch on Castiel’s forearm, a red, raised line that must have bled when it happened. It shouldn’t be there. Dean looks at Castiel more closely, taking in the details again – the signs of fatigue, the absence of the angel’s usual uniform, the dirt, the injury. Castiel doesn’t meet Dean’s eyes, staring with great fascination at his fingers, twisting around in the mess of sheets at the edge of Dean’s cot. Dean wraps his hand around Castiel’s wrist and he freezes, then slowly raises his head to meet Dean’s gaze.

“What’s wrong with you?” Dean asks.

Castiel clears his throat and says in a voice so devoid of inflection Dean might almost believe nothing had changed, “I am no longer an angel. I am as you are.”

“As I am,” Dean repeats.

“You are human again, Dean. You have been restored. I am so glad.” Castiel smiles, and it’s different than the tiny, mysterious hint of a grin that used to constitute Castiel’s smiles. This one is wider and sweeter and sadder.

“Yeah, me too,” Dean says, and he is glad, of course, but right now he mainly wants to know what the hell is going on.

“You’re human?”

Castiel nods, biting his lip. He appears more unsure than Dean has ever seen him.

“Fuck,” Dean whispers.

“Yes,” Castiel agrees. “Fuck.”

“But how –? Who –? It was that shithead Zach, wasn’t it?”

“I do not believe he was acting alone. Doubtless, it was the judgment of the Host that Zachariah carried out when he took my grace.” Castiel takes a breath, and there’s a little hitch in it. It’s so strange to hear that hitch, so wrong. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

“Sorry?” Dean says. “What have you got to be sorry for?”

“I was careless,” Castiel says. “I let myself be caught. And I was not able to come to you when you needed me.”

Dean thinks maybe he should be angry at that, but there are too many other emotions warring inside him for anger to really get a foothold.

“Yeah, that sucked,” he admits. “But we can deal with it later. We’ve gotta get your angel mojo back first.” Dean starts to sit up and the world whirls around him. He swallows, feeling a wave of nausea. Castiel’s hand is flat against his chest, pushing him back down onto the cot.

“You need rest,” he says. “You have experienced… “ Castiel frowns, clearly at a loss for how to describe what Dean has recently experienced. “Something of a shock.”

Dean _is_ sleepy, but he struggles to keep his eyes open, afraid that if he closes them this will all turn out to be a dream and he’ll still be drifting around, helpless and disembodied somewhere inside Gabriel. Not to mention the fact that, human or not, Castiel is the best thing he’s seen since, well, since the last time he saw Castiel.

“Cas,” he says. “What happened? I thought I was a goner – and then – did Michael win? Is the world ending? I gotta know what happened.”

Castiel makes a face. “It was something of a draw.”

The answer is so unexpected that Dean is suddenly wide awake. He struggles up to one elbow, ignoring the dizziness that hits him. “A _what_?”

“A draw. The two sides met before the battle was to commence, and they drew up a truce.”

“You’re shittin’ me!” Dean exclaims. “How is that even possible?”

“It was Gabriel,” Castiel says. “He always was the peacemaker in the family, the only one who could broker deals between the various factions. After he left, Heaven became a much more fractious place.”

“But he’s such an asshole,” Dean says. “Creating chaos is his m.o., not ending it.”

“True,” agrees Castiel. “But he understands the motivations of men and angels and he knows what it takes to appease them. And he was a favorite of both Michael’s and Lucifer’s, back before the Fall. He loved them too well, perhaps, so when they fought he couldn’t bear it.”

“So he made a deal between Michael and Lucifer,” Dean says, trying to picture it. Him and Sam (or their bodies, at least), shaking hands, agreeing not to tear the world apart. It was small consolation for the wrongs they’d suffered, but it was something. “What about Zachariah?”

“He has not been heard from. I cannot imagine he is pleased, but ultimately, the power of Heaven does not rest with him, it rests with the archangels. Raphael will follow Michael in all things, and right now Gabriel appears to have his finger on the pulse of Heaven and Hell. The archangels have returned to Heaven and Lucifer has gone with them.”

“I can’t believe it,” Dean says, lowering himself back down to the bed. He shakes his head in wonder. “The little sonofabitch ended the apocalypse.” His hand tightens around Castiel’s wrist. “Sam?”

“Is gone. I’m sorry.” Castiel’s mouth turns down unhappily. “Michael consented to your reconstitution when Gabriel explained that he carried your soul, but it was too late for Sam. When Lucifer took him there was no one there to save him, as Gabriel did you.”

“Yeah, well. I guess that’s no surprise,” Dean says dejectedly. He’s tired again, bone-deep weariness sweeping through him, too much for him to fight this time.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Dean says, and as he falls into sleep, he feels Castiel’s hand cover his own.

~*~

The second Dean nods off, Gabriel appears beside Castiel. The suddenness of it nearly makes him jump out of his skin, and for the first time he understands why Dean disliked it so much when Castiel used to do the same thing.

“Hey, little bro,” Gabriel says. Apparently, the resumption of his angelic station hasn’t altered Gabriel’s informal means of address. He frowns down at Dean, tilting his head first one way then the other. “How’s the patient?”

“He will recover,” Castiel says warily. He finds it hard to trust Gabriel, even though he must credit him with averting the apocalypse and, of more immediate importance to him, saving Dean’s life.

“Imagine, Dean Winchester once again lands on his feet.” Gabriel snorts. “We must alert the media.”

“How go the negotiations?” Castiel asks.

“Not that it’s any of your beeswax, now that you have feet of clay”, Gabriel says, “but what a bunch of babies they are! ‘I want this!’, ‘No, I want this!’,” he mimics in a high, irritating voice. “I’d almost forgotten what bitchy prima donnas angels can be. Lucifer doesn’t want to be Ruler of Hell anymore. I ask you, who else is gonna take that job? No one, that’s who. He keeps giving me meaningful looks like he thinks _I_ should volunteer. And since the Old Man’s in absentia, Michael’s bucking for an official title as High King of Heaven, like that’s ever gonna happen. The sense of entitlement these guys have is out of this world.” Gabriel rolls his eyes extravagantly.

“That sounds daunting,” Castiel says. He is not well-acquainted with Michael and has had only the slightest interaction with Lucifer, but everyone knows that of all the beings in Heaven, the archangels have the reputation of being the most challenging to deal with. “Will you be able to broker a peace between them?”

Gabriel shrugs. “We’ll see. I’m not holding my breath, but at the least I can buy us some time. And who knows? Miracles do happen.” He gives Castiel a sly, considering look. “And what about you, Castiel?”

Castiel stands. He is taller than Gabriel, but that gives him no advantage. Gabriel is an angel, Castiel is not; there is no advantage possible. “I am as you see me.” He holds his hands out from his sides.

“Hmmm.” Gabriel considers him. “You look just as grubby and confused as the rest of them, but still, humanity suits you somehow. You always were a little different.”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees. “I was.” It is easy to finally admit that, good soldier though he was, he had never quite fit in with his brethren. “I felt my grace in him, even after Michael. But since you brought him here, nothing.”

“He’s human now, you’re human now,” Gabriel says. “Poof! No more grace.”

Castiel nods, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “I see.”

“What’s it gonna be?” Gabriel asks. He holds out his hand, and for a moment he’s not joking around. “Will you return with me, little one?” His eyes are serious, intensely so, and the look he directs at Castiel is so unwavering that Castiel feels it drill down deep inside him. A sudden expression of enlightenment brightens Gabriel’s face and he says, “ _Ah-ha_ , so that’s how it is. I had my suspicions.”

“You read my mind?!” Castiel says, affronted.

“Castiel and Dean, sittin’ in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g,” Gabriel singsongs. “Guess you won’t be coming home, then.”

Castiel looks at Dean, sleeping as peacefully as he does after a routine salt-and-burn. “I will stay, and take my chances in this life.”

(I know it may be difficult to go along with this; you may be skeptical that Castiel would truly relinquish Heaven, even for Dean. You do not have to doubt the strength of Castiel’s love to wonder if he would give it all up for Dean, although it can be argued that question has been answered. Hasn't he given it all up for Dean already? But even so, it does not look like much fun to be an angel, does it? On the plus side, immortality, awesome powers and righteous certainty. But Castiel has already lost the latter, and as an angel he would have to associate with other angels, who, as far as we can tell, are mostly dicks. Additional minuses: unquestioning obedience, the inability to experience emotion and a deplorable lack of sex.)

“You’re not gonna tell him, are you?” Gabriel asks with a crooked smile. “That you had the chance to go back.”

“No,” Castiel says softly, his eyes traveling over Dean’s face. “I will not tell him that.”

“He doesn’t deserve you, you know,” Gabriel says.

Castiel looks at him then, pins him with an icy glare. “He deserves _everything_. I will be the lucky one, if he will have me.”

Gabriel just chuckles, unperturbed. “Oh, he’ll have you, all right. Have you seen his dreams? That boy has one _very_ active imagination.”

“Isn’t it time you return to your negotiations?” Castiel asks. “Heaven and Hell may become restless if you keep them waiting.”

“They’ll be fine,” Gabriel assures him. “But have it your way. I know when I’ve overstayed my welcome. G’bye, Castiel. Have fun being human. And remember, today is the first day of the rest of your life.”

A wink, a snap of the fingers and Gabriel is gone. The moment of his leaving stretches out into a strange and frightening finality as Castiel realizes that his choice is made. There is no reprieve if he at some point discovers he has made a mistake.

Then he looks at Dean, who mutters something in his sleep. Castiel sits at the edge of his cot and brushes Dean’s forehead with his fingertips. He no longer can banish Dean’s nightmares with a touch, but Dean stills nonetheless.

They are alone in the world, Castiel realizes. They have both lost their families. Dean’s only remaining friend is Bobby Singer, if he is still alive. The only friend Castiel has ever had is Dean.

The war for which Castiel has been preparing for the entirety of his existence has had a last-minute cancellation, but the Earth is ravaged and humans inhabiting it are in an uproar. There is no guarantee that it will not yet be destroyed, even though the angels and demons have abandoned it, at least temporarily.

As a place to start, it is not a very auspicious one. Odds are that things will not go well. There will be trouble, because this is Dean Winchester we are talking about, and there will be danger, for the same reason.

Castiel finds that he does not much care about any of that.

He looks at Dean, whose eyes are open, watching him.

“You’re still here,” Dean says, and smiles. Castiel cups his cheek in his palm, feels his human heart beat more quickly when Dean turns toward his hand.

“Yes. I am not going anywhere, Dean,” Castiel says.

“That’s what I want to hear,” Dean says, and pulls him down close, closer, until their lips touch.

~*~

And there you have it, one version of the way it could go. I never claimed that it would be the most exciting version, or the most imaginative one, or the best one. It is simply a single possibility among many and I make no claim as to its superiority or believability.

Our story ends there, for it is late on the eve before this fic is due to be posted, and even if there were more story to tell (which there is not), we would have to leave Dean and Castiel there, in a make-shift hospital on a war-torn Earth, facing an uncertain and, in all likelihood, unpleasant future. But they will face it together, and that, as I am certain that you will agree, is all that matters.

(It is understandable if a briefly described and all-too-chaste kiss is not the ending you have hoped for. After all, you have slogged through over 8000 words, many of which were part of superfluous asides from the author that you feel did the fic no favors. It is a bit of a letdown to get nothing more substantial at the end, but considering how this fic has gone from the very start, you cannot say that you are surprised.

If you wish, you may imagine what comes next for Dean and Castiel. You may prefer something with more certainty, not to mention porn. You are certainly within your rights to do so and it will not be the first time a reader has invented a more fulfilling ending for a story. In this, however, you are left to your own devices; no guidance will be forthcoming from the writer.)

 _In one reader’s mind, they drive away in the Impala (assuming Castiel ignored Dean’s request that he take it to Bobby’s) and pull over at a rest stop late at night. Castiel loses his virginity on the hood of the Chevy, the metal warm beneath his back. In the quiet moment after their release, Castiel confesses his love, and Dean pulls him close and replies, “Yeah, I know.”_

 _Another reader envisions Dean and Castiel hunting together, killing evil sons of bitches and raising a little hell. Dean teaches Castiel to play poker and to hustle at pool. Castiel takes to wearing jeans and boots and flannel shirts, lets his hair grow, swears every once in a while. They finish each other’s sentences and always have each other’s backs, and after a hunt there’s nothing Dean loves more than to slam Castiel back against the door of their motel room and drop to his knees in front of him._

 _In yet another reader’s mind, Dean and Castiel retire to the country, buy a big piece of property, hang some curtains in the windows, sit and watch TV in the evening in side by side recliners. Castiel learns to bake pie and laugh at Dean’s jokes and Dean learns to give foot massages and to believe that he is worthy of love. They live long, happy, uncomplicated lives; early to bed, early to rise and lots of sex in the hours between._


End file.
